idk-thisistoomuchpressure

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Idol x Song Imagine

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Will you call me to tell me you're alright? p.5

Idol : Wonbin (RIIZE)

He stays for two days.

Not long. Just enough time to prove to yourself that he’s still real. Not just a voice in your phone or a name that lights up your notifications.

You don’t do anything special. He doesn't ask to. He just fits himself into your days like he never left—sits across from you at the diner, takes quiet walks beside you without needing to fill the silence. You find yourself laughing. Not a lot, but enough to remember what it felt like to laugh without faking it.

He doesn’t ask about the hotel. But you catch the way he looks at your name tag tossed on the table. And the way his smile falters when you talk about your shift like it’s nothing.

The truth is: you’re tired. Of being here. Of being you, lately.

You don’t say it out loud, but it clings to you like static.

You wake up most mornings with your chest already heavy. You move through the world like you’re apologizing for taking up space. And when people ask how you’re doing, you lie without even thinking. “Good. Just tired.” Always tired.

You tried. You really did. College was supposed to be a new start. A bigger version of yourself. But instead, it cracked you open. You failed—quietly, then loudly. You came home ashamed, empty-handed, and unsure of how to keep trying.

Meanwhile, he’s living out his dream. Or at least, the version of it the world gets to see.

You’re proud of him. Of course you are. But sometimes, when you watch his stage clips or hear his voice in interviews, it feels like watching someone you used to know.

Someone who used to mop café floors with you and sing into whipped cream canisters like a mic. Someone who would sit on the sidewalk outside after closing and talk about the future like it was a movie you’d both get to star in.

You still like him. You probably always will.

But the boy you liked back then—the one who laughed at your terrible music taste and always ordered too much sugar in his coffee—that boy… you could have loved him fully.

This version of him? The one who doesn’t belong in this town anymore, who’s grown taller in the silence between your last hug and this one?

You don’t know how to reach him the same way. And you’re not sure you want to.

On his last night, you walk him to the station.

The train’s late, which feels like mercy. The two of you sit on a bench that smells like rust and dust and time, and say almost nothing.

He leans back, hands in his lap. “You ever think about how different we are now?”

You nod slowly. “All the time.”

He looks over at you. “Do you think we missed it? Our moment?”

You don't answer right away. You look down at your shoes.

“I think the people we were… they could’ve worked. They might’ve had something.” You swallow hard. “But those two people don’t exist anymore.”

He nods, and the way he exhales tells you he already knew that too.

You stand in silence as the train finally pulls in. He steps forward, then turns back.

He pulls something folded from his pocket and presses it into your hand.

“Lyrics,” he says. “Some are trash. One’s kind of about you.”

You try to smile. It works, barely.

He reaches out, brushes your arm lightly. “Text me when you get home.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Then you watch him go—again. And this time, it hurts a little less, because you’re not pretending anything. This time, you’re letting go the right way.

That night, you open the paper. The lyrics are scribbled, messy. Words scratched out and rewritten. Some you don’t understand.

But the one he said was about you reads:

“You were the place I felt safest. Even when I wasn’t yours.”

You fold it back up and put it in your drawer.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe it’s okay that not everything gets a perfect ending.

Some stories just need to be heard.

And some people only love each other in the version of the world where they never had to grow up.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Will you call me to tell me you're alright? p.4

Idol : Wonbin (RIIZE)

You don’t cry when you see him. You thought you would. But all the tears dried up somewhere between your double shift and the voice message you weren’t supposed to send.

So you just… nod. Step aside. Let him in.

Your apartment is small. Dim. Smells like cheap takeout and fabric softener. He doesn’t seem to mind. Just kicks off his shoes and follows you to the couch like he’s done it a thousand times—even though he never has.

He sits. So do you. A whole cushion of space between you.

Neither of you says much for a while.

He glances around. “Looks like you’ve been surviving.”

You huff out a laugh. “Barely.”

He smiles, just a little. Not pitying. Just… warm. Like he’s trying to offer you something you forgot you needed.

You order food, mostly for something to do. He eats slowly. You pick at yours. Eventually, the TV hums in the background—some rerun neither of you are watching.

“Why didn’t you tell me you dropped out?” he asks.

His voice isn’t accusing. It’s careful.

You shrug. “Didn’t want to disappoint you.”

That makes him look up. “You couldn’t.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it sit between you.

Later, you’re lying on the floor side by side, shoulders almost touching. Lights off. Just the city glow seeping through the window.

“I kept thinking about that time we got locked out of the café,” he says.

You smile. “Because you forgot your key.”

He grins. “No, you forgot your key.”

You don’t argue. You just let the memory hold you both up for a second.

Then: “You ever think about what we were?” you ask quietly.

He’s silent for a beat. Two. Then: “All the time.”

You turn your head toward him. He’s staring at the ceiling.

“Then why didn’t you ever…” You trail off. You don’t even know what you’re asking.

He answers anyway. “Because I didn’t want to give you another reason to stay.”

Your breath catches.

“You were supposed to leave, too,” he says. “Do something big. Bigger than this town. Bigger than me.”

“I tried,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then, softer: “I’m sorry it didn’t stick.”

You blink hard against the sting behind your eyes.

He finally turns his head to face you. “But I’m still here. If you need me.”

Neither of you moves. You’re just two shadows on the floor, suspended in the space where something almost started and never quite ended.

You still haven’t kissed. Still haven’t said the words.

But right now, it feels like more than enough.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Will you call me to tell me you're alright? p.3

Idol : Wonbin (RIIZE)

You stop replying for a while.

Not on purpose. It just happens—one unread message turns into two. Then five. Then it feels too weird to text back like nothing happened. So you don’t.

You tell yourself he’s busy anyway. He’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing. And you’re just... here. Still stripping beds. Still folding towels. Still stuck.

Your body moves through the days, but your head’s somewhere underwater. You forget to eat sometimes. Forget what your voice sounds like when it’s not apologizing.

He notices. Of course he does.

[Wonbin]: hey [Wonbin]: it’s been a while [Wonbin]: just checking in [Wonbin]: can you let me know you're okay?

You stare at the messages. You think about replying. But what are you supposed to say? "Hey, sorry I disappeared. I think I'm slowly falling apart but I don't want to be dramatic."

So you don’t.

He starts calling. At first, just once. Then again. And again. You don’t answer.

But you listen to the voicemails. He sounds unsure. Careful. Like he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing and pushing you further away.

“I don’t want to bother you. I just… I don’t know. I’m here, okay? Whenever you need.”

You cry in the hotel laundry room while that message plays on loop in your pocket.

That night, you finally send him a voice message back.

You don’t plan it. Don’t rehearse it. You’re sitting on your kitchen floor, knees pulled to your chest, lights off.

You hit record.

“I don’t think I’m okay.” Your voice breaks halfway through. You keep talking anyway. “I just… I thought I’d be more by now. I feel like everyone else is moving on and I’m still stuck in the same place, making beds and folding other people’s lives into corners. I’m tired, and I feel like I’m disappearing.”

There’s silence. Then: “I just wanted you to know. I’m not ignoring you. I just don’t know how to be a person right now.”

You don’t listen back before sending it.

The second you hit send, you regret it.

He doesn’t reply that night.

Or the next.

You convince yourself that was it. You said too much. You made it too heavy. Maybe he’s finally done worrying about you.

Maybe it’s better that way.

But three days later, you open your apartment door after work—exhausted, smelling like bleach—and there he is. Standing in the hallway. Hoodie up, mask on, hands in his pockets.

Your heart stops.

He pulls his mask down, like he’s trying to prove it’s really him.

“I got your message,” he says quietly.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

“I had a break in my schedule,” he adds. “Didn’t want to waste it.”

Then softer: “Can I come in?”

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Will you call me to tell me you're alright? p.2

Idol : Wonbin (RIIZE)

The hotel smells like bleach and regret. You’ve stopped noticing it, mostly. Just like you’ve stopped noticing how your knees ache from kneeling to scrub the tile grout in the bathrooms. Or how no one at the front desk bothers to say your name.

You wake up early, go to work, come home, sleep. Repeat. You tried to make it feel like a reset. A breather. Something temporary. But six months go by, and you're still here, folding towels tighter than necessary and wondering when the hell your life started shrinking.

Everyone you know has moved on. Your classmates post dorm selfies and blurry concert stories. Study abroad pictures. Application acceptances. You mute their stories.

He texts sometimes. Never too much. Just little things.

[Wonbin]: you okay? [Wonbin]: did you eat? [Wonbin]: you got home safe? [Wonbin]: new song dropping tonight. let me know what you think.

You usually reply. Short things. “Yeah.” “I did.” “I will.” Some days, you don’t reply at all. But you read them. Every time.

He sends voice messages more often than texts now. Maybe he figured it’s easier for you to just listen.

His voice sounds different lately. Like the Seoul air is thinning him out. Like the industry’s already started sanding down his edges.

Still, he tries to sound normal. Warm.

“I saw this ad the other day. The model kinda looked like you. You used to wear those ugly green jackets, remember?” He laughs quietly. “I miss that jacket. I miss you.”

You replay that one too many times.

One night, after a shift that drained you more than usual, you lie on your bed still in uniform. You’re scrolling aimlessly. You tap open his story—just a blurry video of a studio, someone riffing off-key in the background.

You watch it on loop. And for a second, you let yourself ask the question that’s been circling your chest for months: If I had left with him… would I still be me?

You don’t know the answer.

But you know he’s still out there—trying to hold onto a piece of you, even if it’s just through a screen.

And that’s enough. For now.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Will you call me to tell me you're alright? p.1

Idol : Wonbin (RIIZE)

You never meant to get close. It was just a part-time job—a way to make a little cash before college swallowed you whole. He started two weeks after you. Awkward. Quiet. Always folding the cleaning rags perfectly like he’d practiced at home.

The café wasn’t glamorous. The espresso machine hissed like it hated everyone. The lighting made everyone look tired. But somehow, he fit there—like the place was just dim enough for someone like him to exist comfortably. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… there.

You bonded over shared shifts and slow hours. Burnt coffee. Music recommendations scribbled on napkins. He’d hum while sweeping, sometimes full-on sing if the place was empty. That’s how you found out. He wanted to be an idol.

You laughed at first—not in a mean way. Just… surprised. He didn’t look like someone who wanted to be seen by the whole world.

But the more you watched him—the way his voice wrapped around lyrics, how his eyes lit up when he talked about the stage—you got it.

And somewhere in between 6 a.m. openings and mopping floors at midnight, you became each other’s someone. Not lovers. Not just friends. Something quieter. Something in-between. Like you were both waiting for the other person to say something first.

He never did.

The day he got the call, you were restocking syrups. He came up behind you, said your name like it meant something. You knew before he told you.

“You’re really leaving,” you said.

He nodded. “Seoul. End of the week.”

You didn’t say much after that. You wanted to be happy for him, and you were. But also… not.

You hugged outside the café on his last night shift. His jacket smelled like vanilla and old coffee. Your fingers dug into his back, but only for a second.

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” he said, like he always did.

You smiled. “Yeah. I will.”

You did leave the café, just like you planned. College felt like the right move. A step forward.

But you only lasted one semester.

Too much pressure. Too much noise. Too many people who seemed to have it all figured out.

You failed most of your classes and came back home before winter break. Didn’t tell him at first.

Now you work at a hotel off the main road. The kind with stale carpet and numbered keycards. It pays okay. It’s quiet. And no one looks twice at you in the uniform.

Sometimes, when you strip bedsheets in silence, you think about that café. About him humming under his breath. About how you were supposed to leave too.

You still text when you get home late.

He still checks every message.

Even now.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: You're no good, I'm no good, we're no good p.5

Idol: Park Sunghoon (EN-HYPEN)

You don’t hear from him for three days. At first, you tell yourself it’s a break. That it’s healthy. That maybe he’s moving on, and maybe you should too. But by the second night, you’re restless. You check your inbox more times than you care to admit. You almost put on the mask. You almost go live. You don’t. But only because you’re afraid he won’t show up. The fourth night, he does. No video this time. No voice either. Just a message:

moonreflections: i missed you.

Your hands shake. You hate that they shake. You start the call. The silence is familiar. Comforting, almost. You imagine he’s lying on his back in a dark room, staring at the ceiling. You imagine he’s just as fucked up as you remember. You say, “You disappeared.” “I didn’t know if I should come back.” You whisper, “And yet you did.” He sighs. You picture his fingers tugging at his sleeves, his hoodie pulled over his face. “I told myself I’d quit,” you say. “You weren’t around and it felt like a sign. But I kept checking. I kept hoping.” He doesn't say anything. And maybe that’s worse. “You’re not good for me,” you say, and the words feel like betrayal in your mouth. “Neither are you.” It stings, but you nod. Because it’s true. You make each other worse. You feed each other the same tired, desperate ache night after night. You tiptoe around affection like it’s something dangerous. You cling to the version of each other you’ve invented. You press your forehead to your knees. “I think about you when I’m not working. Like… too much. I know this doesn’t mean anything. I know it’s pretend. But I still—” “I do too,” he cuts in, fast, almost like it hurts to admit. The silence turns bitter. “I wanted to stop needing this,” he says. “But it’s easier to want you than it is to want anything real.” You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to ask him why he said it like that. But you know why. You say, “You think anyone will ever love people like us?” He laughs, and it sounds hollow. “Probably not.” You laugh too. And then you don’t. There’s a long silence. Not the kind that stretches. The kind that settles. “Do you want me to stop calling?” he asks. You think about it. You think about how much lighter you might feel. About how this isn’t love. About how it’s barely even comfort. But you say, “No.” Because you’re weak. Because you like the pain. Because even if it’s not real, it’s yours. He tips again. It’s less than usual. Maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn’t. You fall asleep with the mask still on, the screen still glowing. When you wake up, he’s gone. But the call is still open. And you don’t end it. Not yet.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: You're no good, I'm no good, we're no good p.4

Idol: Park Sunghoon (EN-HYPEN)

He turns on the camera without warning. You almost don’t notice it at first. You’re halfway through a story about a customer who screamed at you at the bodega, your voice dull and steady. You’ve gotten used to his silence. To the sound of him breathing in the dark. So when the screen flickers, your words catch mid-sentence. There he is. Hood up. Face shadowed by the dim light from his phone. Eyes sharp but tired. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge the shift. Just looks at you, blinking slowly like he’s daring you to speak first. Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. You don’t recognize him. Not exactly. He’s handsome in a way that feels oddly familiar, like someone you might’ve seen in a dream or brushed past on the street. But there’s no instant click. No gasp of recognition. Still, your heart stutters. You whisper, "Why?" He shrugs. The movement is small. Tired. "Felt like it." You want to ask if this changes everything. If this is the part where he asks for your face in return. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for something you don’t know how to give. “I thought we weren’t doing this,” you murmur. His jaw clenches. "Yeah, well. I got tired of hiding." You don’t believe him. Not really. But you don’t call him on it. The call goes quiet for a while. You study his face through the mask—every detail, like you’re memorizing it in case he disappears. He looks young. Sad. Too put together to be this lost, and yet here he is, same as you. Alone, despite everything. A beautiful kind of mess. He tips you halfway through the silence. Not for anything you’ve done. Just because. Like he wants you to know he’s still there. Like he doesn’t know how to be close without paying for it. You think about turning your camera off. About logging out. About taking off your mask just to see what he’ll say. But you don’t. Instead, you say, “You ever think this is all we’re good for?” He doesn’t answer at first. Then: “All the time.” You hum quietly, a noise low in your throat. “I promised myself I’d quit. Again.” “Didn’t you say that last week?” “And the week before that. And the one before that.” “You never do.” You shrug. “Neither do you.” There’s a bitter softness in your voice that makes the silence that follows feel mean. “I think I need you to need me,” you admit, suddenly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Otherwise none of this makes sense.” He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. “Maybe that’s why I keep showing up.” There’s something ugly in that. Something honest. You’re both addicted to the version of yourselves that only exists between 1 and 4 a.m. He looks at you again, really looks at you, and says, “You don’t even like this, do you?” “I hate it.” “So why are you still here?” “Because I’d rather be wanted like this than not at all.” He nods, slow and tired, like he understands. Like maybe he feels the same. You say, “You know this isn’t a fairytale, right?” He looks straight at you. “Doesn’t mean I don’t dream.” You laugh, soft and dry. “Me too.” Another pause. Then: “Do you want to see me?” you ask. He flinches, almost imperceptibly. “No. Not unless you want me to.” You nod. You don’t take off the mask. You don’t need to. The damage is already done. You’ve already shown him the ugliest parts of you—even if he never sees your face. You fall asleep with the call still open, his face the last thing you see. When you wake up, he’s gone. But the tip came through. And your inbox is empty. You tell yourself this isn’t love. You don’t believe yourself. And you promise, again, that you’ll quit. Just not this week.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: You're no good, I'm no good, we're no good p.3

Idol: Park Sunghoon (EN-HYPEN)

He keeps coming back. Some nights you talk. Some nights you don’t. But the call always comes, late—when the city’s quiet and your body feels too heavy for the bed. You never know what version of him you’re going to get. Sometimes he’s soft-spoken, careful. Other times he’s distracted, distant, like he’s trying to outrun something and you’re just the thing he landed on to break the fall. You like him better when he’s quiet. It’s easier to imagine he cares. Tonight, he’s restless. You can hear it in the way he breathes too hard into the mic, the way he doesn’t say your name like he usually does. He doesn’t ask you to pretend tonight. Doesn’t even say hello. “Rough day?” you ask, even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t chase him. But you always do. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he mutters. “I don’t even know what this is.” You know he doesn’t mean the session. But your chest still tightens like he’s talking about you. You wait. You’ve gotten good at that. He exhales sharply. “I feel like I’m being eaten alive from the inside out. I put on a smile. I keep moving. I make people think I’m okay. And I hate that I’m good at it.” You press your knuckles to your mouth. The only thing you know about him is that he has money. That he tips like it means nothing. That he sounds tired even when he’s saying nothing at all. But nights like this, you wonder if there’s something underneath. Something damaged. Something sharp. “Maybe you like hurting,” you say, voice quieter than it’s ever been. “Some people do. Some people get good at it.” There’s a long pause. Then he laughs—low, broken. “You’re not wrong.” Your throat tightens. You don’t know why you say what you say next. “You make me feel like I’m not real unless you’re here.” You regret it instantly. You weren’t supposed to say that. You weren’t supposed to need him. But lately, when his name doesn’t pop up in your session requests, your stomach knots in a way that has nothing to do with money. “You always say that like I asked you to,” he says, voice flat. You flinch. He doesn’t mean it cruelly. But it still hits you. And the worst part? You get it. You’re both messed up people using each other to feel something. And maybe that’s not love. Maybe it’s not even comfort. Maybe it’s just company. “Why do you keep coming back?” you ask. You hate how fragile your voice sounds. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because you don’t ask for anything I can’t give.” That makes you feel small. “I’m not doing this forever,” you lie. “You said that last week.” You pull your knees to your chest, mask still on. Always on. You want to scream at him. You want to ask if he’d still tip if he saw your real face. Your real life. Your real sadness. But instead, you say, “You’re the only one who comes back.” And that’s the truth. He’s quiet for a long time. You think he’s going to log off. Then he says: “You don’t take the mask off. I don’t turn the camera on. We’re both hiding. Maybe that’s why this works.” You swallow hard. “What if this is the best it gets?” you whisper. He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t leave. And neither do you. The call doesn’t end until one of you falls asleep. Or maybe both of you do. You wake hours later to a black screen, a blinking cursor, and a single tip. Enough to keep the lights on. Enough to make you stay another week.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: You're no good, I'm no good, we're no good p.2

Idol: Park Sunghoon (EN-HYPEN)

He comes back the next night. Same username. Same quiet request. No video, no voice. Just a message.

moonreflections: just talk to me again. same way as before.

And you do. You slip behind the mask, light your room the way he seems to like it—warm, soft, golden—and speak. You tell him about the rain outside. About the pasta you overcooked. About a dream you had that you can’t quite remember, but it left you feeling hollow all day. He tips again. Quietly. Generously. He types:

moonreflections: I don’t want to see you. I just want to hear you. that okay?

It is. You don’t say it out loud, but you nod anyway, the motion so small it doesn’t even register on camera. You lean into the mic and ask, "What do you want me to be tonight?" He types back:

moonreflections: pretend you love me.pretend you miss me.

Your throat tightens. But you do it. You close your eyes and whisper the words no one else has asked to hear from you. You talk like he's someone you've always known. Like you're waiting for him to come home. Like you're already in love with a stranger who pays you to pretend. He never interrupts. Never rushes. He just listens. Tips occasionally. Sometimes he types short messages:

moonreflections: you sound tired tonight. Or: moonreflections: are you okay?

And maybe it's all a game to him. Maybe he's just playing along. But still, something about the way he asks feels different. You start waiting for his name to pop up. When it doesn't, you feel something sour settle in your chest. When it does, you feel relief. And that scares you more than anything. On the fifth night, he finally speaks. It catches you off guard—his camera still off, just a voice through your headphones. Low. Smooth. Tired. "Sorry," he says, like he's embarrassed. "Typing felt… wrong tonight." You don't respond right away. Your heart is pounding in your ears. He sounds familiar. Not in the way that makes you think you know him, but in the way he says things softly. The way he pauses like he's not used to being listened to. You find yourself saying, "That's okay. I like your voice." There's a beat of silence. You wonder if you've said too much. Then he says, quietly, "You're the only person I can talk to like this." You don't know what to do with that. It sounds too close to the things you think and never say. It sounds like something you want to believe. You ask, "What do you do?" He laughs. Not in a mean way—more like he's amused by the absurdity of the question. "A little bit of everything," he says. "But mostly, I pretend." You understand that. You whisper, "Me too." That night, after the session ends, you sit in front of the blank screen with your mask still on. Your face hot. Your chest tight. You don’t take the mask off right away. You don’t want to be seen—even by yourself. He sent you another tip. More than usual. It makes you feel both grateful and small. Before logging off, you type something into the empty chat box. He’s already gone, but you say it anyway:

Goodnight. I hope you sleep well.

And for once, you mean it.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: You're no good, I'm no good, we're no good

Idol: Park Sunghoon (EN-HYPEN)

The mask sits on the desk beside you like a dare. Plain, black, matte. No design, no lace, no eye-catching mystery. Just something to hide behind. You stare at it while the screen in front of you lights up—two unread messages, both expired, and a new private session request blinking at the top of the chat box. Username: moonreflections. You don’t recognize it. Good. New means impersonal. New means easy. You let out a long sigh and tuck your hair behind your ears, even though no one will see your face anyway. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then drop into your lap instead. Your apartment is too quiet tonight, humming with the kind of silence that makes your thoughts scream. “I’ll quit this week,” you whisper, just to hear something human. “Swear to God.” You always say that on Mondays. Your webcam flickers to life as you adjust the lighting to something soft, golden. Warm, but not too personal. You check your reflection, adjust your shirt, smooth down the mask's edges. Then you click \“accept\” on the session. The screen blinks. For a moment, there’s nothing. No camera on his end. No voice. Just silence and the faint flicker of the red "live" icon in the corner. Then a message pops up in the chat:

moonreflections: can you just talk tonight?

You blink. Another message follows before you can type a response:

moonreflections: pretend we’re in bed. say something soft. something warm.

Your lips part. You read it again. And then again. Most men want the same thing. Take your top off. Moan louder. Call me something filthy. Fake it for me, baby. But this? You reach for the mic, throat dry, heart tired, and whisper, “I think you smell like cedar and cigarettes. And you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, just in case.” There’s a pause. A full minute, maybe two.

moonreflections: thank you.

You don’t know what that means. But he tips. More than you make in an entire shift. No demands. No dirty requests. Just a single thank you, and then:

moonreflections: I’ll come back tomorrow.

The session ends. The mask suddenly feels heavier. You peel it off slowly, wincing at the way your skin sticks to the underside. There’s a faint red outline across your cheeks and nose. The kind of mark that fades before morning but stays burned into your brain all the same. You pad to the kitchen on bare feet. Pour water from the sink. Stare out the window at the alley below your apartment where a cat darts between trash bins. This isn’t the life you wanted. It isn’t even the one you meant to settle for. It’s just the only one you can survive in. You tried other things. You really did. Retail. Office temp. Receptionist. They never lasted. You were too quiet, too anxious, too much and not enough all at once. The camera made things easier. You could disappear behind a screen, slip into the version of yourself that men wanted. You could be a fantasy, not a failure. But the money isn’t good. Not really. Not anymore. Your regulars have stopped tipping. The algorithm isn’t favoring your stream. And you refuse to take off the mask. Everyone always asks why. Some think it’s part of the act. Others get angry. "What are you hiding? You ugly or something?" They say it like a joke. You never laugh. Yes. That’s exactly what you’re hiding. You don’t think you’re beautiful. Not like the other girls. Not like the ones who don’t need masks or soft lighting or fake names. Your beauty feels borrowed, easily revoked. And sometimes you wonder if it isn’t even about beauty at all. Maybe you just don’t want to be known. Not really. Because being known means being seen. And being seen means being left. You carry your water back to your room. Look at the screen again. Still blank. moonreflections. The name pulses in your mind like a soft bruise. You don’t know who he is. But he hasn’t asked for anything. You power off the webcam. Shut down the light. Crawl into bed fully clothed, mask still in your hand. You think about his voice. Wait—no, he didn’t speak. Just text. Just words. But somehow you heard them anyway. Your phone buzzes. A payment notification. The amount makes your eyes widen. One session. Enough to cover your power bill and then some. It makes you feel sick. You press your face into the pillow. Whisper into the dark: “Maybe next week.” And for a second, you almost believe it.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: All that you want but not what you need boy why p.4

Idol: Leehan (BOYNEXTDOOR)

You think about throwing out the photo. The one of him smiling at the goldfish tank. The one you tucked behind the mirror. It feels too raw now. Too much like proof of something real, and real things break. You know that. But you don’t. You keep it exactly where it is.

He doesn’t say the word until spring. You’re sitting on the curb behind the store. The sun's setting. Your apron is still on. You’re eating lukewarm kimbap from a plastic box, and he’s next to you, elbow brushing yours. “I think I’m in love with you,” he says. You choke on a piece of rice. He waits. Patient. Not dramatic. Not even looking at you when he says it. Like he’s just stating a fact. You stare straight ahead. At the dumpster. At the orange streaks in the sky. “Don’t say that,” you whisper. “Why not?” “Because it’s not fair.” He turns to you then. Really looks at you. “To who?” You don’t answer. You want to say to you, to me, to the part of me that keeps waiting for people to leave. Instead you just shake your head. “I’m not ready.” He nods once. Like he gets it. “Then I won’t say it again.” But he doesn’t leave.

You try to pull away after that. Not cruelly. Just slowly. A message you don’t answer here. A shift change you don’t mention there. A week where you “forget” to text back. He notices. You think he’ll ghost. That he’ll take the hint. But he doesn’t. He comes in on his day off. Buys fish food he doesn’t need. Waits by the counter while you scan it in silence. “You okay?” he asks. You nod. “Liar,” he says gently. You glance up. His expression is calm. Unbothered. Like he knows this part already. Like he planned for it. “I don’t know how to do this,” you admit. “Good. Me either.”

That night, you find yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror. You look at your reflection like it belongs to someone else. Then you whisper, to no one: “Why do you even like me?” The version of you in the mirror doesn’t answer. You reach for your phone. Open the camera roll. The blurry photo of Leehan, arms flung wide, caught mid-sentence. He looks alive in it. You scroll to the photo you took of yourself. Your face is half shadowed. Eyes tired. But there's something different there. Something still standing.

A week passes. You don’t hear from him. You’re stocking the bottom shelf when you see his shoes. He crouches down, eye level with you. “Hey,” he says. “Hey.” You don’t know what else to say. So you sit there. In the aisle. With him. Quiet. Until you finally blurt it: “You should probably stop liking me.” He just raises an eyebrow. “You want me to?” You hesitate. “I don’t know.” “Then I probably won’t.”

The torn-tail clownfish dies that Friday. You find her floating before your shift even starts. You stare at the tank for too long. Long enough that the manager gently taps your shoulder. Leehan shows up later. Sees your face. Doesn’t ask. Just walks to the back, finds a net, helps you scoop her out. You bury her in the alley beside the store. No words. Just the two of you, kneeling in the dirt. You think you should say something but can’t. When you stand up, he brushes dirt from your sleeve. “We should name the next one,” he says. “Yeah.”

It doesn’t get easier all at once. But it does change. You still have bad days. Still vanish into bed for hours. Still doubt everything, especially yourself. But there are more photos now. You keep them in a shoebox under your bed. Him holding a bag of gravel. You in oversized sunglasses he dared you to wear. A Polaroid of your hands, not touching, just close. You’re not fixed. But you’re not alone, either. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.

One day, months later, you come into work and find a note taped to the register. Just two words: Still here. You smile. You write back: Me too.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: All that you want but not what you need boy why p.3

Idol: Leehan (BOYNEXTDOOR)

You see it in their faces when he walks in. The guy from the backroom with the spider tattoo on his hand nudges the girl stocking fish flakes. She peeks up, does a double take. You pretend not to notice. But it’s different now. Leehan doesn’t just wander in anymore. He waits by the front after closing. Walks you to the bus stop. Sometimes shows up with bubble tea like it’s a habit. Like you’re a habit. You haven’t labeled it. You won’t. You’re not that brave.

One afternoon, he brings a disposable camera. “What’s this?” you ask, eyeing it suspiciously. “You ever seen one of these?” “I’m not that much older than you.” He laughs. “Good. You’re in charge of documenting the day.” “Why?” He shrugs. “Because you’re real. And I want to remember real.” You roll your eyes, but your fingers linger on the camera longer than they need to. You don’t take any photos that day. But you carry it in your hoodie pocket like you might.

The others still keep their distance. Sometimes you’ll spot one of them in the doorway, coming to drag Leehan to rehearsal or press or whatever idols do on their off-days. They always give you a look. Not rude. Just… evaluating. You don’t blame them. You’re quiet. You disappear for days. You leave him on read more than you mean to. You’re not shiny or fun or girlfriend material. You’re just you.

You’re crouched beside the tank of tetras when he says it. “They still think I’m wasting my time.” You glance up. “Are you?” He looks at you for a long beat. Then crouches beside you. “No.” You study the tank, the way the fish dart like nervous thoughts. “It doesn’t make sense,” you say. “You could be with anyone. Someone who’s not… this.” He nudges your sneaker with his. “But I’m not.”

Later that night, you take a photo. He doesn’t notice. He’s helping a customer, pointing at a goldfish with both hands like he’s giving a TED Talk. You catch the moment, the blur of movement, the half-smile. You don’t tell him. You develop the photos yourself at one of those tiny labs that still exist in strip malls. It smells like chemicals and nostalgia. You wait in silence while the clerk processes them. When you see the shot, your throat tightens. It’s not perfect. Off-center. A little too dark. But he looks happy. You keep it in your wallet. Folded. Hidden.

You don’t realize how much you’ve changed until your manager mentions it. “You smile more,” he says, handing you the keys to open. You blink. “Do I?” He nods. “Still weird as hell. But nicer.” You laugh. It surprises both of you.

The thing is, you still disappear sometimes. A bad night here. A hollow weekend there. He texts. You don’t always answer. He never gets mad. Just sends a photo of a fish and the words still here. You start texting back: me too. It becomes a thing. Still here. Me too. Over and over.

One Sunday, he invites you to the dorm. You hesitate. You’ve never crossed that line. That’s real real. “They’ll be weird,” you warn. “They’re always weird,” he says. You go. They stare. You stare back. You sit in the corner, sip your drink, answer questions in clipped syllables. It’s awkward. But not unbearable. Later, when one of them pulls Leehan aside, you hear your name. You pretend not to. He doesn’t deny anything. Doesn’t apologize for knowing you. You catch his eye across the room. He winks. You think you might survive this, after all.

That night, back at your place, you pin the photo of him behind your dresser mirror. Where no one can see it. But you can. You stare at it for a while. Then you pick up the camera. And take one of yourself.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: All that you want but not what you need boy why p.2

Idol: Leehan (BOYNEXTDOOR)

The thing about depression is that it doesn't announce itself. It doesn't knock before barging in. One day you're wiping down a counter, semi-functioning, and the next you're curled under a blanket, unable to remember if you brushed your teeth. It hits midweek. You call out of work. Not because you're sick. Not in the way they'd understand. Just can't get out of bed. Can't fake normal. Can't smile politely at customers who care more about algae levels than human connection. Your phone buzzes. Leehan: You good? Haven't seen you. You read it. Let the screen dim. You don’t answer. The guilt presses down. You know it looks cold. You know it feels like you're pushing him away. Maybe you are. But it's not personal. It's just your brain.

By the time you show up again, it’s been four days. Your manager barely looks up. You thank him silently for not asking questions. You're restocking water conditioner when you hear it. “You’re alive.” You turn. He’s standing by the filter aisle, hands in his hoodie pocket, expression unreadable. “Barely,” you say. He walks over slowly, like he’s not sure you want him to. You don’t move. “I thought I did something wrong,” he says. You look at him, then back down at the bottle in your hand. Shake your head. “It’s not you. I just… short-circuited, I guess.” His eyes soften. “You don’t have to explain.” But you kind of want to. Just a little. “I was basically a houseplant for like a year and a half. Didn’t go outside. Didn’t do anything. I’m better now, but sometimes it still… hits.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pity you. “You’re not a houseplant now,” he says. You half-laugh. “No? What am I?” “A tired fish store employee with a decent aim when she throws empty boxes at me.” You smile. It slips out before you can stop it. He stays past closing. Helps you sweep. You work quietly together. It’s easy. “Do your members hate me?” you ask finally. He leans on the broom. “They don’t hate you. They just don’t know you.” “They think I’m weird.” “You are.” You glare at him. He grins. “But I like that,” he adds. You shake your head. “You don’t even know me.” “I know enough.”

The next time he shows up, he brings snacks. Sets them down on the counter like it's the most normal thing in the world. You cock an eyebrow. “You trying to feed me or bribe me?” “Both.” You pop a chip in your mouth and sigh. “It’s working.” He leans against the counter, watches you like he’s trying to memorize something. You feel it in your chest and immediately try to shut it down. You’re not the kind of girl idols fall for. Or even talk to this long. You're a blip. A weird story. A quiet older girl who can’t keep up. But he keeps showing up. One night, you text him first. You ever feel like you’re just filling space? Like, you’re here, but nothing would change if you weren’t? He replies: Yeah. But then I remember the fish. And you. You blink at the screen. The fish? Yeah. Someone has to feed them. You laugh. Actually laugh.

He doesn’t try to fix you. He just shows up. And in a world that feels like it gave up on you, that matters more than anything. You’re still tired. Still unsure. Still haunted by the parts of yourself you keep locked down. But when he looks at you like you’re not broken, it’s harder to keep believing you are. You haven’t introduced him to anyone. There’s no one to introduce. You haven’t had a real friend in years. You deleted all your socials months ago. But you find yourself imagining it, sometimes. What it'd be like to have someone who knows the mess and stays anyway. Someone who doesn’t flinch when you go quiet for a week. Someone like him.

Closing time again. Lights dim. Fish tanks hum. You stand by the tank with the torn-tail clownfish. She’s still there. Still swimming. Leehan comes up beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “Still don’t have a name for her?” he asks. You shrug. “Maybe she doesn’t need one.” “Maybe she already has one. You just don’t know it yet.” You watch the fish circle slow, lazy loops through the water. The filter hums. “Maybe she’s just trying to stay afloat,” you say. He looks at you for a moment, then nods. “Aren’t we all?”

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: All that you want but not what you need boy why p.1

Idol Leehan

The fish store smells like filtered water and thawed shrimp. It's not glamorous, but it’s better than being in bed. Barely. You clock in five minutes late. Again. Your manager doesn't say anything. He never does. You're not sure if it's mercy or indifference. Either way, you take it. You know nothing about fish. Still forget if guppies are freshwater or not. You had to Google what "brackish" meant twice. But this was the only job that would hire you. No degree. No skills. Just a wrinkled high school diploma and a black hole in your resume where a year and a half disappeared into bed sheets and unopened texts. You wipe down the counter, trying to look busy while doing the bare minimum. That’s when the bell above the door jingles. Again. It’s him. You don’t know his name, not officially. You know of him. The boy from BOYNEXTDOOR. The tall one with the soft eyes and permanently ruffled hair. Lee Han, or something like that. This is the third time this week. Each time, he walks in like he has a purpose but never buys a thing. Just crouches by the clownfish tank, elbows on his knees, staring into the water like it might speak back. You pretend to clean the glass. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. But the silence is different with him around. Less heavy. On Friday, you break it. “You lost, or just lonely?” He grins without looking at you. “Can’t it be both?” You hum. “Guess so.” He looks at the tank again, and you look at him. His profile is sharp but soft. You wonder what his skin routine is. Yours is mostly just soap and guilt. “What’s her name?” he asks. “Huh?” He points to the tank. One fish swims alone, half her tail torn. You hadn’t noticed. “Didn’t name her.” “That’s sad.” “Fish don’t cry,” you mutter. He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he stands and brushes his hands on his pants. “You do though.” You blink. He leaves.

The next week, he comes in again. This time, he isn’t alone. He walks in with one of the other members. The one with the sharp jaw and tired eyes. They talk low, glancing your way once or twice. You hear your name. Then quiet. You keep your eyes on the register. The other guy watches you like you’re a problem. You don’t blame him. You're two years older. Quiet. Distant. Not exactly someone idols make friends with. You feel their hesitation like static in the air. Later that night, your phone buzzes. Leehan: Are you okay? You read it. Don’t answer. Not because you’re mad. Not because you’re cold. Just because the fog in your head feels too thick to type through. You tell yourself you’ll answer tomorrow. You don’t.

Sunday, you’re doing inventory. Counting flakes and pellets like it matters. Trying to stay upright when all you want is to lie on the cold tile floor and disappear. The bell chimes again. You glance up, expecting a customer. It's him. Alone. “Didn’t think you’d come back,” you say without looking up. “You didn’t answer,” he says. “Didn’t feel like talking.” “That’s fair.” Instead of hovering like usual, he sits on the floor. Cross-legged in the middle of the aisle like he’s got nowhere else to be. You raise a brow. “You always this weird?” “Only around people who don’t pretend to like me.” You don’t respond. You finish counting the containers, scribble something on your clipboard, then lower yourself to the floor across from him. “I don’t have the energy to pretend.” “Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.” And somehow, that doesn’t feel like an insult.

He starts coming by more after that. Sometimes he brings drinks. One time a sandwich. He never asks if you want it. Just leaves it on the counter and shrugs. He doesn’t fix you. Doesn’t try to. Just talks sometimes. Or listens. Or watches the fish and tells you which ones he’d be if he had to be reincarnated. You learn he’s quieter off-stage. A little awkward. A little too sincere. You like that. The others stay wary. They pass through the store once or twice, nod politely, but never stay long. You feel them watching you when they think you’re not looking. Waiting for the red flag to wave. You want to tell them there isn’t one. You also kind of want to wave it just to see what happens.

It shifts slowly. Not like a flip, but like the tide. Quiet and patient. You let your hand rest near his on the counter one day. He doesn’t move. You laugh at something he says. Not a small exhale, a real laugh. It feels foreign in your throat. One night, he texts again: Leehan: You ever wonder what the fish think of us? You type back: They probably think we’re sad. His reply comes fast. You think they’re wrong? You stare at the screen. Then type: I think they’re not surprised. The next morning, he shows up before your shift starts. He helps you clean out the dead tank. You work in silence, sleeves rolled up, hands wet. You glance over, and he's there. Still there. Not saying much. Not expecting anything. The water ripples. The light catches in the tank. And for a second, just a second, the world doesn’t feel like it’s crushing you. You breathe. And he stays.

[idk-thisistoomuchpressure]

Title: If I Could Give You the Moon

Idol: Anton (RIIZE)

⸻

You weren’t supposed to talk to the idols.

That was one of the first rules you were told on the job—right after “wear black” and “don’t look lost.” You worked backstage, helping reset dressing rooms and guide stage crew in and out with their equipment. It wasn’t exciting, not really. But the music made the walls hum, and sometimes you’d catch the singers standing still just before the lights went up—wide-eyed, young, and suddenly so human.

You only spoke to Anton because he got lost.

“Sorry,” he said, turning around in a hallway that only led to a loading dock. His voice was low, unhurried. He didn’t look rushed like the others. Just a little lost. He looked at your badge and said, “Do you know how to get back to the dressing rooms?”

You showed him. You didn’t mean to walk the whole way, but he kept asking questions—about the venue, about your job, about what you do when there’s no one famous on stage.

“Not much,” you shrugged. “Clean. Fix broken things. Try not to feel invisible.”

He looked at you for a long second and said, “I see you.”

And you hated that it meant anything. But it did.

⸻

The group was only there for three days. Three whirlwind nights of rehearsals and cameras and interviews and fans screaming their names. You only saw him in fragments: sitting on the edge of the stage, sipping from his water bottle and nodding at the techs, slipping you a quiet smile as he passed by.

You didn’t fall in love.

You just fell into something warm. Something golden and small and already fading.

On the second night, you were eating an ice cream outside during your break, sitting on the low concrete ledge behind the building. The sun was setting in a wash of orange and lavender. It felt like a dream you were going to wake up from.

He found you there.

He didn’t say anything—just sat next to you and offered half his melted popsicle. You took it. Ate in silence. A light breeze stirred between you, and for a second, you felt like the world had stopped spinning just long enough to let you breathe.

“I like places like this,” he said eventually. “Where it’s quiet. Where people forget about you.”

You looked at him. “Don’t people always remember you?”

He didn’t smile. Just stared straight ahead. “They remember what they see. Not who you are.”

You wanted to ask who he was, then. But the question felt too heavy. And maybe you didn’t want to know. Maybe it was better this way—him being half-real, half-sunset.

⸻

On the third day, the buses rolled in before sunrise. You knew they’d be gone before your shift ended. You told yourself you wouldn’t wait around, but you found yourself in that same spot out back, sun rising now instead of setting, your legs dangling over the ledge.

You didn’t expect anything.

But hours later, your phone buzzed.

A photo.

The moon, high over a foreign city. Blurry and soft. And beneath it: this reminded me of you.

You stared at it for a long time, in your bedroom that still looked like a childhood you never outgrew. The walls were too close. The air was too quiet. Downstairs, your parents argued about groceries and your future in the same breath, like they were interchangeable.

And you thought: What do you give a boy who has everything?

Money. Fame. The world at his fingertips. Hotels that clean up after him. Planes that wait.

You have nothing.

Not really.

Just the ache in your chest, the memory of a shared popsicle on a hot summer night, and the feeling of him beside you when you felt like no one else noticed you existed.

“If I could give you the moon,” you whispered to the empty room, “I would give you the moon.”

And it’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. But it’s the only thing you have left to offer someone who will forget your name the second the tour moves on.

⸻

A week later, he sends another photo.

A rainy window. A blurry train station. A little caption: wish you were here.

And this time, you feel it rise—resentment, sharp and sour. You look at the photo with cracked hands and a sore back from another double shift. You look at it with your dad’s disappointment echoing in the hallway and a stack of bills you can’t even look at.

And you hate him.

Not in the way that means anything. Not really.

You just hate that he got out. That he gets to see the world. That he gets to remember you when you’re still stuck here, trying not to forget yourself.

But you don’t block him.

You don’t ask him to stop.

You just sit on the same curb during your break, legs swinging, sun setting again. And you let it hurt.